Glass
by Aalon
Summary: A one-shot story, set in Season 3, almost two weeks after the Last Call episode, this story finds Richard Castle alone, on a Friday night, in The Old Haunt, the bar he has just bought a couple of weeks prior.


**Glass**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 **A/N:** Okay, just because it's the Christmas season, I am dusting off an idea I had awhile back when I watched an episode from Season 3 – Last Call. This episode originally aired back in early December 2010. It was the last episode before the show went on a four week hiatus, returning in January. When I watched that show, watching Castle, Beckett, Montgomery, Esposito and Ryan walking about of the precinct singing after Castle had bought The Old Haunt bar, I really thought that the writers were moving Castle and Beckett closer. We hadn't seen a whole lot of Josh Davidson, but we knew he was out there. But now that Castle had a bar – a bar, for crying out loud – I allowed myself to get a little excited over the stories they might tell. So, stupid me, we know they didn't go that route, but that didn't stop my imagination from running rampant. This is one of those rampant jogs that never came to fruition with the show.

This is not my normal type of multi-arc story – it's just a Christmas one-shot of what might-have-been. The story picks up almost two weeks after the end of the Last Call episode.

 _ **Friday, December 17, 2010 at 9:12 p.m. at The Old Haunt in New York City**_

He stands in the middle of his new bar, his eyes dancing brightly across the large nine-foot piece of upstate New York nature that has taken its place here. A smile of contentment – one of pure joy – cascades down his face as he breathes in a sigh of post-adolescent pride. It has taken roughly twenty minutes to finish stringing the multicolored, super bright lights around the tree, settling the lights and cords just right. He has just completed a couple of dozen well placed artificial pine cones in just the right spots. Now he is filling the remaining gaps and branches with colorful glass ornaments he picked up from the Christmas Store earlier this afternoon.

Today was the last day of school and an entire city of young people are now out for the holiday break. Young Alexis spent exactly nine minutes at home after school, and that just to retrieve a few things before heading out to Ashley's house. She will be back home around eleven. That's what she said one the way out, a quick kiss to the cheek and an I-love-you on the wind as she blew out the door.

Martha is down in the theatre district with a mini-performance. An actress slipped in rehearsals and is out for the next week or so, opening the door for Martha to step into the minor part in the production. She will be out until past midnight.

No matter. The atmosphere here, along with the new reality setting in keep the smile plastered on his face. He's filled with a strange satisfaction at being the new owner of this historic establishment. His gaze moves from the still sparsely decorated tree in front of him to the small booth toward the back. The booth where he spent night after night, writing his first novel. He smiles at the memory, and for a brief instant, he can once again see the young, ambitious and cocky Richard Castle sitting there, eyes wide, lips pursed as he creates that first imaginary world that will launch a career and an ever-growing fandom.

His eyes wander back to the Christmas tree in front of him. It is a real Douglas fir he found at a Christmas tree lot about an hour and a half upstate. Getting the beast back here to the city, navigating the battalion of taxi cabs in downtown had been an adventure all its own in the pick-up truck he had rented.

Who is kidding whom? Just finding a place to rent a pickup truck was a story all in itself.

He idly picks up another ornament, this one a bright red sphere with gold specs sprinkled here and there. He reaches up at one of the high branches and begins to put the ornament into place when the incessant rapping on the window pane above startles him out of the happy calm merriment he feels tonight.

A quick gaze to the window, and he almost drops the ornament, now juggling it from hand to hand until he finally gets it stabilized in both hands. Sheepishly, he glances back to the window where a smirking Kate Beckett is waving.

He makes his way to the front of the bar and unlocks the door – triple locks – granting the detective access.

"Hi Castle," she marvels as she takes in the holiday ambience that he has obviously been hard at work creating. "Martha told me I'd probably find you here. I was kind of surprised. I figured you'd be with Alexis this evening, what with school out now."

"Alexis is out at Ashley's house tonight," he replies, still a bit taken back with the sudden appearance of his partner and muse.

"That's a good thing, right?" she asks, but she realizes before the words finish their arc from her lips to his ears what an incredibly dumb and insensitive question it is.

"I guess. I suppose I really was a hit with his parents," he muses sadly. "Maybe too much. Now all of the sudden for the past week or so, holiday nights leading up to Christmas at home with dad is kind of lame."

He glances out toward the window, not really looking at anything or anyone, but within seconds, the melancholy air that threatens to consume his festive mood disappears.

"What time does she get home tonight?" she asks.

"Wait," he says suddenly, his head whipping towards the detective. "You called my mother?"

"I called you twice, but you weren't picking up," she tells him, as if her logic is the most sound in the world.

"I know," he tells her, remembering her calls that came in while he was zoned in – legs and arms twisted in strings of lights. "But you _called my mother?!_ " he exclaims incredulously.

"Is it a crime to call your mother, Castle?" she deadpans.

"You _do_ know Mother, don't you?" he asks, his tone serious. He pinches her face lightly.

"You are really Beckett, right?" he asks, as she playfully slaps his hand away.

"Seriously, is everything all right?" he finally manages, smirking.

"Everything is fine, Castle," she says with a smile. "We've just had some down time at the precinct during the past week. Nothing of interest since you bought this old smelly bar," she smiles.

"Smell of stale beer, you said, if I recall," he states affably. "I noticed your sudden dearth of cases, from the lack of phone calls my way." He immediately regrets those words, fearing they make him look hapless and waiting by the phone. Which, truth be told, he hasn't been doing. He's been far too busy with the bar, so the unexpected reprieve from murderous crime at the 12th has been serendipitous for the novelist.

"So what _are_ you doing down here, all alone, at –", she glances at her watch, "9:18 in the evening. Surely you didn't come down here just to decorate. And why isn't this place open for business on a Friday night, Castle?" she asks, just now realizing the obvious lack of patrons in the bar.

"That's a lot of questions, detective," he kids her, smiling. "As a matter of fact, I did," he continues. "Come down here to decorate, that is. Been here for the past couple of hours," he confirms, glancing at his own watch. "I closed the bar around seven tonight. Holiday renovations. Didn't you see the sign?"

"Of course I saw the sign," she tells him. "But I also saw the lights on, and figured you were in here. Just didn't figure you'd be playing Betty Homemaker with decorations all by yourself," she chuckles, drawing a smile from him. She takes out her phone, and points it at him.

"What are you doing?" he asks, alarmed. He's well aware of his daughter's social networking pranks, and isn't going to put anything past the detective.

"Just capturing the moment for Esposito and Ryan," she tells him, and the flash causes him to throw up a protective arm.

"Too late, Castle," she laughs. She knows this picture will come in handy, probably sooner than later.

"You're an evil woman, Kate Beckett," he smiles. "Here I am, minding my own business – for once," he jokes with an eyebrow waggle, "Just listening to some Christmas tunes, stringing lights up in my new establishment, putting this tree up, and –"

"You really like this, don't you Castle?" she interrupts, putting her phone away, and genuinely realizing how important this is for the writer.

He places an ornament on the tree, and grabs another. He glances at the tree, searching for the right spot for the golden ornament. Finding the spot, he begins to hang the next ornament as he responds.

"A week ago, when we were on the docks, when we found Donny Hayes' body," he begins. "Remember you asked me if anything is really ever the way we remember if from grade school?

"Yeah, I remember," she replies, her arms now folding, taking in the sight of Castle decorating.

"Some things are," he says simply. He is quiet for a few seconds, as she realizes what he is talking about.

"Christmas?" she asks.

Castle simply nods his head as he searches for the next ornament to hang.

"For me, as a boy, Christmas was always a blur," he tells her as he hangs the shiny, harp-shaped ornament. "The holiday season was always rife with double performances, after-show parties, and strange babysitters. There wasn't a whole lot of time for trimming the tree or doing those Christmas kind of things with Mother."

"You never trimmed a tree Castle?" she asks, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

"No, no," he says, correcting her. "I said I didn't trim a tree _with Mother_. It was always a babysitter."

He sees the look of alarm on her face and has to smile, God bless her.

"Mother knew how much I loved Christmas," he explains, "And so she always made sure that I got to help put up the tree, the decorations, all of that stuff. But it was rarely time spent helping Mother. Usually it was the just babysitter and I."

"I'm so sorry, Castle," Kate tells him, and he hears the honesty in her voice. It's a strange night for them, he realizes. No sparring, no innuendo, and no arguing.

" _Give us a half hour,"_ he smiles to himself, then replies to her.

"It wasn't so bad, Beckett," he tells her. "Like I said, Mother always made sure we had lots of decorations, so that was nice. There was always so much to put up. And the babysitters were usually pretty nice, and always ones that I knew. Not strangers. One year, there was this babysitter, a redhead, her name was Eileen - I think I was fifteen and –"

"Castle!" she interrupts, not wanting to partake down the memory lane of castle's teenage debauchery. He only smiles, realizing that half an hour was far too generous.

"Sorry," he counters, still smiling. "Anyway, trimming the tree has always been a big thing for Alexis and me. And with each passing year, she does more than I. As it should be, I suppose," he says, his smile widening with the memory of the most recent trimming which occurred just a couple of weeks ago with his daughter.

"Down here, though," he continues, waving his hand at the room surrounding them, "I get to decorate things in my . . ."

"In your own unique way," she smiles, fully understanding.

"I was going to say in my own ruggedly handsome way," he adds with a smirk.

He turns away from her, and places another ornament, this one more octagonal in shape on a branch hanging about a foot above his head. He cocks his head, assessing his work before retrieving the ornament and placing it one branch below. He nods his head in satisfaction, humming along with the latest song playing on his playlist. Now he begins to sing.

 _I see you've traveled far, bearing treasures._ _  
_ _You say these gifts are for, the new King's pleasures_

Suddenly he hears a higher soprano voice, beautiful in tone. She sings along with the next line from the song as she appears next to him, an ornament in her hand that she places on the branch below his, just to the right. It's eye level with her, and she smiles as she sings.

 _I've heard that a king might come._ _  
_ _But up till now there hasn't been one_

Castle glances at the woman next to him, a look of surprise on his face that he doesn't bother to mask. She never stops surprising him. It's a good thing. It's part of the charm. Part of their 'thing.'

"Not many people know that song, detective," he smiles. "I have to admit, I'm impressed."

"Trust me, Castle, I didn't figure you for a Billy Gilman fan, either," she laughs, referring to the young artist from early 2000 who made the song popular.

"Please, detective," he laughs. "You forget, I had an elementary-age daughter who was in love with a little boy with dirty blonde hair a cute smile."

"And the Donny Osmond voice didn't hurt either," she chuckles.

"Are we still talking about Alexis, or you, now?" he counters with his trademark smirk. There it is. There they go. Back to their routine. It's comfortable . . . and almost . . . sad.

"Don't ruin the moment, Castle," she smiles, but finds herself mildly surprised when she realizes she means it.

Castle doesn't say a word. Instead, he reaches down to the small half table just a few feet away, and picks up a small red-colored goblet filled with spiked egg nog. His sip leaves him with a slight yellow mustache that yields a smile, then a small chuckle from Kate. Ignoring her laughter, he picks up another ornament, and places this one higher, on an upper branch of the nine foot three. He turns to her, catching her staring.

"Something wrong, Beckett?" he asks.

"No, nothing at all, Castle," the detective replies, now surprising him as she takes off her coat and slings it on the back of a nearby chair. "You wouldn't have any more of that egg nog would you? Or is that Clark Gable look you're sporting all that's left of it for the night?"

"And what if it was, detective?" he muses, smiling, but doesn't give her a chance to respond. Her open mouthed retort is stifled as she watches him walk away, going behind the bar counter. He bends, reaching into the small refrigerator and pulls out a quart of egg nog. It's about half full now, as he has certainly been in the spirit of things before her unexpected arrival. He pours some in a matching red goblet and tops it off with a splash of spiced rum. He replaces the Captain Morgan bottle in its place, and comes back around the counter to the tree that stands in the middle of the room, surrounded by booths and tables.

"One spiked egg nog, as requested, M'lady," he says with a flourish, immediately chastising himself for a wee bit too much of the flamboyant, feminine Martha Rodgers having rubbed off. He makes a mental note to down a couple of shots of whiskey and poke himself with a dart soon as the detective departs. Which, given the fact that she's here now drinking egg nog . . . and trimming a tree with him? He vaguely hears the twilight zone jingle whistling in his head.

"Why thank you, good sir," she says gratefully, playing along.

" _Who_ _is_ _this?_ " he wonders to himself, afraid to shake his head, afraid to pinch himself, afraid to move to quickly, else the dream fade away.

For her part, Kate Beckett simply takes a sip of the holiday drink, and now sporting her own upper lip covering, she picks up a long, French Horn-shaped gold ornament and fits it into a crevice in the middle of the tree.

"Excellent placement, detective," he murmurs appreciatively.

Castle stays quiet after this, not wanting to ruin the totally unexpected holiday spirit permeating throughout The Old Haunt. For a brief instant, he wonders where her motorcycle riding mystery man is this evening . . . but he's sure as hell not going to throw cold water on the holiday flames by asking his whereabouts. Instead, he begins to continue their casual conversation, when she beats him to the punch, surprising him with her topic of choice.

"Trimming the tree with Mom and Dad is one of the great memories I have," she tells him as she puts another ornament on the tree, this time on a lower branch near the floor.

"It's one of those childhood joys that I can still just close my eyes and relive," she continues. "But after Mom died, and Dad . . . fell . . . well . . . there just wasn't any joy in a tree with balls and lights anymore."

He cannot help but stare at her, marveling at how easily she is talking about her mother, her mother's death, her father's addiction affliction. He barely gets the words out, almost inaudible. Almost.

"It became nothing more a tree with balls and lights?" he asks as he puts another ornament on the back side of the tree, moving away from the detective.

"Less than that," she tells him, staying on her side of the tree. "There _was_ no Christmas tree. No decorations. No reason to have one, no time to get one. It's been just nothing more than a distant memory of a younger girl from a long time ago."

"In a galaxy far, far away," he adds with a chuckle from the other side of the tree where he is placing new ornaments, trying to insert a little levity into the suddenly solemn occasion.

"So tonight, she begins, ignoring his Star Wars theme, "is the first time in . . . oh, maybe eight, nine years that I have put an ornament on a tree, Castle. Certainly the first time I have decorated a tree with Christmas music and egg nog and –"

"Say no more, detective," he tells her quickly, as he comes around to her side of the tree again. He reaches over to the table, grabbing an entire box of eight assorted ornaments. He hands the box of glass ornaments to Kate, bowing with a flourish for his presentation. He's almost relieved when she does not respond with a curtsy.

"There is an entire tree to decorate, and many gaps and crevices staring at us," he tells her. "And the egg nog will last only for so long," he tells her as he walks to the other side of the tree, picking up his ornaments as he begins to sing the chorus.

 _There's a new kid in town, and he's lying in manger down the road._ _  
_ _There's a new kid in town, but he's just another baby, I suppose_

He smiles as she joins in, once again.

 _Heaven knows. There's a new kid in town_ _  
_ _Here in Bethlehem_

For the next five or so minutes, they don't talk. They simply sing to themselves, each well aware of the other, harmonizing when appropriate, but no words passing between them. The song ends, and the first strands of _Rocking Around the Christmas Tree_ begin, bringing a smile to Castle's face as he hears the detective singing along with Brenda Lee.

Five more minutes pass, and the once empty tree now shines a little more brightly, as the lights reflect off the glass and metallic ornaments, bathing the old bar with new colors. Castle smiles and cannot suppress a contented sigh. It is short-lived as he hears the detective's phone buzzing. That can only mean one of three things.

Her dad is calling. That would be the best-case scenario.

The second option would be the precinct calling. Not desired, only because that would certainly take him away from this moment as well if it is a body drop.

"And this close to Christmas," he thinks to himself, as he then considers – on the third ring, wondering why she hasn't answered it yet – the third, and least desirable option. He hears her answer, finally.

"Hello, Josh," she answers, taking a step away from the tree and turning away, toward the bar counter.

"Yeah, ding-ding-ding for option three," he mutters with a frown. Whatever – it was a nice twenty minutes or so. A nice surprise. Just accept these little gifts from the universe and be happy. Things can always be worse.

"I thought you were getting off in the morning," Kate tells the doctor on the other end of the call. Truth be told, she's just as disappointed with the call, with the timing of the call as Castle is. That realization almost knocks her breath away.

She and Josh Davidson have been getting closer in the past couple of weeks, and she has no logical explanation for it. He's not really her type, per se. But he is safe. He doesn't seem to be looking for anything permanent or serious. And – if these first couple of months are any indication – he works crazy hours and has this admirable bent for traveling to help those less fortunate.

All in all, what's not to like? He's a really nice guy.

So why does she feel torn when she is with him? She knows – well okay, _knows_ is kind of an assumptive verb here. Let's just say _strongly suspects_. She _strongly suspects_ that Richard Castle's feelings for her are changing. In a good way. _He_ is changing. In a good way. Something about the writer is different. God forbid, is the man actually maturing, growing up in front of her very eyes? He's still fun and funny. He's still charming. And even more ruggedly handsome, if that were possible.

But his words are changing.

It's not just in what he says these days. It's in what he _doesn't_ say. It's not the look in his eye that she catches when she glances quickly toward him in the precinct before he can turn away. It's what's _not_ in his eyes that catches her attention.

She has asked herself – many times – almost as many as Lanie – why she is hesitant to take a step towards the writer. Even after last summer's almost-Hamptons fiasco, which left her heartbroken and alone, she still hears Esposito's haunting words rumble through her head, every evening when she lays her head on the pillow. Often, those words are the last she hears before drifting off to sleep.

" _Why do you think he's been following you around all this time? What? Research? The guy's done enough research to write fifty books."_

Those words had knocked her for a loop for sure. She marvels that – even now, some seven months later, she still remembers the conversation with Javier literally word-for-word. And Espo's next statement had been a punch in the gut for the detective.

" _Look, whatever the reason is, I'm pretty sure it doesn't include watching you be with another guy."_

She knows – she's not stupid – she knows that her friend's conversation with her occurred a day too late to save their summer. That's how she refers to it. It should have been _their_ summer – hers and Castle's. And it would have been had she opened her eyes and ears just one day sooner. If she'd just said yes to his question one day sooner. Watching him leave the precinct with Gina had been hard, yeah. Harder than that, though, was the knowledge that he was probably just rebounding. It didn't make it any easier, mind you. And the fact that she hadn't really seen any indication – none whatsoever – upon his return that he and his publisher/ex-wife were still an item helped only slightly. Still, she has to wonder about a twice-divorced man who still – at least as of last summer – finds reasons to sleep with both of his ex-wives upon occasion.

But Esposito's words continue their haunting ways with her. Even as recently as two nights ago, at a late night dinner at a diner with Josh when he got off work, she found herself staring across the table at the handsome man, watching his lips move. But the voice she heard was clearly Javier Esposito's.

" _Look, whatever the reason is, I'm pretty sure it doesn't include watching you be with another guy."_

She can't deny she feels something for him – Castle, not the doctor. The doctor is . . . he is . . . hell, she doesn't have any idea what he is. Suddenly, she wonders why she is wasting time, holding off, putting off something her heart tells her to grab, but her head fights against.

"You know what, Josh," she begins after a few seconds of conversation, "I think I will take a raincheck tonight, if you don't mind."

Castle hears the words, and once again has to blink, has to almost pinch himself. Sure, this is how it would play out in his dreams. Or in his books. And yes, this woman has damn sure been in his dreams. And lately, not just in a purely sexual, please-God manner. The problem is he is awake. And his dreams about this woman never – ever – even flirt with reality.

"No, I'm not at home," she tells the doctor, opting for honesty. That way she doesn't have to apologize for anything later on. "I'm just out with a friend, having a drink. I will call you tomorrow."

Whatever Josh says to Beckett is clearly unheard by Castle, but his heart leapt when he heard her words indicating that – dear God are you sure this isn't a dream – she tells Josh she isn't up for dinner, or drinks . . . or whatever it is that she and this guy do when they are together. He fights to keep his mind from going there. Not tonight.

His heart is still flipping in his chest when she hangs up, puts her phone away and turns, returning to the tree, walking past the coat he half expects her to pick up on the way out toward the front door.

"Leaving so soon?" he asks, hoping he has heard right, hoping she is staying.

"Actually no," she says softly, then adds abruptly. "That is, unless you want me to. I mean, I did come here uninvited and –"

"Never uninvited, detective," he corrects her, peeking around the tree to make sure he catches her eyes. "You are never uninvited here."

She drops her eyes, and for a moment he wonders if she is playing coy, if they are back to that. When she raises her eyes to his again, he sees none of that. Instead, there is . . . is it a sparkle there that he sees?

"Thanks, Castle," she replies softly. "I will remember that."

"I hope you do," he tells her, and then just to make sure he doesn't do or say anything stupid and completely ruin the moment, he pulls himself back to his side of the tree, unseen by her. The smile that rains down on his face goes unseen by her as well. He places another ornament on the tree, and then a second. Then a third. Another minute passes before he finds his words again.

"Thank you," he tells her from the other side of the tree. Her head pops around the tree – mimicking his previous motion.

"For what?" she asks.

"For staying," he says quickly, and simply. "For staying. For . . . for this," he tells her, waving his hand at the tree, the bar counter. "For decorating with me tonight. For singing with me tonight. For having a drink of egg nog –"

"Spiked egg nog," she corrects. "Do I have to worry about you taking advantage of me, Mr. Castle?" she asks with a smile, as she pulls her head back to her side.

"No, you don't, Detective Beckett," he tells her, surprising her with his lack of innuendo. Surprising her and . . . is this really a pang of disappointment she feels?

Suddenly, he comes around to her side again, and she, too, feels a slight flutter in her chest.

" _No, I never get these little flutters with Josh,"_ she admits to herself. Just this simple knowledge, this realization reaffirms that she has made the right decision tonight.

She glances down at the box he hands her. Another box of ornaments.

"Last box," he tells her, and his smile belies the disappointment he feels. This has gone far too quickly. He moves toward a utility closet behind the bar counter, and comes back with a small, three-step ladder. He sets it down in front of the tree.

"Well, one of us needs to start climbing," he smiles.

"I will let you take the honors, Castle," she tells him, smiling back.

"Probably a wise decision, detective," he offers her, still smiling as he climbs the first, second and then final step. He turns and reaches back toward her.

"Can you hand me the box?" he asks. "Or just give them to me one at a time."

"How about one at a time," she agrees, and he nods his head, hand outstretched awaiting the first ornament. She hands it to him, and he places it on an upper branch, then sticks his hand out, requesting the next one. They repeat this twice more before he climbs down, and moves the small step-ladder to the opposite side. He begins to climb when she stops him.

"My turn," she is all she says, as she gently taps him out of the way, and begins the small, three-step climb. Reaching the third – and top – step, he finds himself eye-level with her hips as she steadies herself. She turns around, catching his eyes locked in on her blue-jean covered derriere.

"See anything interesting?" she asks with a soft chuckle. It's a dangerous game she is playing all of the sudden. But that damn flutter seems to be driving her forward.

"Interesting isn't the word I would have chosen," he tells her, his voice almost catching in his throat.

"Well, you are the writer," she acknowledges. "What word would you have used?"

"Well, my choice of words right now . . ." he answers nervously – and she suppresses a smile at how cute he looks when he is flustered like this as he continues.

". . . My choice of words start and end with magnificent," he tells her, as he blinks quickly and looks upward – ignoring her eyes – and handing her ball. Yeah, she likes this version of Castle.

"Wow Castle, I kind of hoped that the word might have been 'extraordinary'," she teases him through smiling teeth as she turns her back to him again – and there's that view again – to put the next ball on a branch. "That's what you used to call –"

"Extraordinary implies a personal knowledge," he interrupts. "A knowledge that I _do_ have with you as a detective, as a friend. But a personal knowledge that I do _not_ have with . . . with . . . _that_ ," he states in a matter-of-fact tone, as he stares – and points – at the ass that is about ten inches from his face now.

Yeah, it's in what he _doesn't_ say. A few months ago, that statement would have had a single word added, a single word that would have changed the entire meaning, the entire tone. A single word that would have ruined such a beautiful statement.

" _But a knowledge that I do not_ _currently_ _have with that."_

Yeah, she can hear him saying that. That's the Castle that she knows. Or is the better term, that's the Castle that she knew?

" _But a knowledge that I do not have with that . . ._ _yet_ _."_

Yeah, she can hear him say that also.

She marvels to herself how one word would have dramatically changed the impact of the statement. One word would have implied something in the future. One word would have demonstrated the typical assumptive nature she has come to expect from Castle. One word would have ruined what has suddenly become a magical, hope-filled night.

But that one word is missing tonight. And if she knows anything about Castle, it is this. He is a writer. A damn good one. He is fantastic with words. He picks and chooses his words carefully. If he adds certain words, it is because he intended those words to be out there.

And if he doesn't use certain words . . . well, that is just as intentional as well. She suppresses another shudder as she inspects the ornament she has just hung in place.

She doesn't say anything, she doesn't call him on it. She simply takes the next ball from his hands, and hangs it on the next highest branch, humming a tune in her head. She reaches down, repeating the action two more times, hanging the final two ornaments. She climbs down the steps, aware that he has placed his hands ever so gently along her waist – just to guide her down, just ensuring she doesn't fall.

She doesn't miss the fact that it is very likely that those hands would have slipped a few inches south had this scene played out a year ago.

She reaches the floor, and turns to see he has already moved away, walking to the other side of the tree. She follows him, and finds him with a single, final glass ornament in his hands. It is a frosted, glass ornament with the year '2010' written in silver glitter.

"Last one," he tells her with a smile, as he holds the ornament by its hanger while reaching down for his goblet. He takes another sip of egg nog, this time using his tongue to wipe away the excess from his upper lip. He places he ornament down, and returns to the bar refrigerator to refill his cup.

"Refill?" he asks.

"Sure," she tells him, walking to the bar counter and quickly sitting on one of the bar stools in front of him. She hands him her goblet, which he takes and quickly refills with the thick yellow liquid. Once again, he tops it off with the Captain, and hands it back. They both make their way to the tree, and he picks up the last ornament again, searching for the appropriate resting place for the frosted ball.

They stand by each other now, without realizing how close to one another they are. Suddenly, the ornament resting comfortably in his left hand, the fingers of his right hand glaze against the fingers of her left hand. Both are startled. She instinctively takes a step away, toward the right. He doesn't move.

"What's happening here, Castle?" she asks.

"Nothing that either of us don't want," is his instinctive reply, surprising both of them. "I think we both know that much by now."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"I mean . . . you and I have become experts at dodging one another. So if anything happens beyond us continuing our little on-going game of human dodgeball, it won't be by accident. Nothing will happen here that both of us aren't on board with."

"Spoken like a writer," she muses – it is a statement of safety, of self-protection, and both realize it.

"Castle," she begins a few seconds later, taking a single step back toward him, repositioning herself next to his side as they continue gazing at the tree – neither willing to risk an eye-to-eye conversation here.

"Castle, we have so much to lose," she finally tells him. "I consider you . . . hell, I am so not good with words," she mutters with disgust. "You are so much more than just a friend to me. I can't lose this, Castle. I have . . . I have lost too much already."

There, she's said it. She's put it out there.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him nod his head. Yeah, he understands, he gets it, too. And, as has been the case so far this evening, he seems to have the right words once again.

"That's why this might be something special," he replies, his voice soft but strong. "Because you are right - there _is_ so much to lose. That means it is worth something."

This time she can't help but turn her head to face him, but he still stares ahead, searching for that elusive perfect spot for the final ornament.

"Look, I'm not going to go all Harlequin Romance novel on you, and talk about how it is fate that you are here tonight, that the universe sent you here on the one night I'd be here alone," he continues, now risking a glance at her as well.

"But I _will_ say that you _choosing_ to stay here, you _choosing_ not to leave with . . . him . . . well, that's worth a chapter in any book I'd write," he smiles, and then returns his attention to the tree.

"That's not fate, that's not chance, that's not the universe. That's _you_ making a decision. I'll take that any day of the week," he tells her, satisfied that he has done his part, he has said enough for one night.

"I'm not good at this, Castle," she tells him. The fluttering in her chest has made its way about three inches south, and has exploded in her stomach.

"And _I am_?" he laughs. "Two ill-advised marriages behind me, and . . . as you have often told me, I live on page six."

"You're not exactly inspiring confidence here, Castle," she smiles nervously, but in truth, his words _do_ cause her much concern. How could they not? There are a multitude of reasons she has kept the writer at far greater-than-arms-length over the past couple of years, with last summer's brief weakening the only aberration. But not wanting to be ex-Mrs. Castle number three is high on that list. As is the fear of becoming a page six Barbie.

"I know, Kate," he tells her, disarming her with his all-too-infrequent usage of her first name. "I guess I don't have a real good answer for you," he tells her, and she can hear the dejection, the defeat in his voice.

" _Are we really going to give up this easily?"_ she asks herself, but the answer is so obvious. Of course they are! It's what they do. It's what they have become very good at. World-class, in fact.

"Whatever is happening," he says, interrupting her train of thought, "whatever this is – or is not – I would just say let's not overthink it. Let's not rush it. You and I could be so good together, Kate – and I'm not talking about anything physical. Oh believe me, that doesn't mean I'm not interested in physical, because –good God in Heaven – you ought to know by now that I am, but –"

"Oh, you've made that abundantly clear over the past couple of years," she smiles. She doesn't say it with any malice, and that lack of edge in her voice gives him the courage to continue.

He turns to her, and holds the frosted ball, the final ornament for the tree, up to eye level for her. He considers his words for a couple of extra seconds, and subtly nods his head when he is convinced he has found the right ones.

"This glass ball," he begins. "You and I might be as beautiful together as this ball. Then again, we might not. Finding out is the journey. That's a journey I would love to take. I think we could be as beautiful as this," he tells her, emphasizing the frosted glass ball in his hand.

"But it is fragile," he continues. "Mishandled, it will shatter. Easily. And beyond repair," he tells her, then he locks into her eyes.

"Like us," he tells her.

She nods her head in understanding, pursing her lips. He can tell she is considering it, contemplating it.

"You take a beautiful glass ball like this and you put it on the most prominent branch," he continues. "You put it out there. You don't hide it. Because it was made special. It was made to be special," he tells her.

"Like us," he continues again.

"That's us. We could hang out on a branch, prominently displayed. In the city. At the precinct, looking pretty for all to see. But the slightest touch, the first fall, the first argument could shatter us. Because we are fragile. We have no foundation."

She nods her head again, and the disappointment in her heart threatens to rise, until he adds that one special word. The word he had purposefully omitted previously. The word that changes everything.

"Yet," he tells her with conviction.

"That's why," he continues, "I would . . . _suggest_ isn't the right word . . . I would _ask_ , Kate . . . let's allow this to play out. Slowly. Over time. It's Christmas – it would be easy to rush into something. To get caught up in the holiday spirit. But you and I, we aren't a Hallmark movie. We aren't used to happy endings. We have to work at things . . ."

He turns away for a brief instant, now unsure. Not of them – but of his words. Is he saying the right things? Is it being heard by her the way he intends?

"I don't know if this is making any sense," he tells her.

"It is making perfect sense, Castle," she replies. She isn't smiling, but she isn't frowning either. He recognizes the Beckett contemplative stare. He's seen it before.

"I would love . . . I would love to see what would happen," he continues, "what could happen if we give this some time, if we take our time – alone and away from the curious – and wagering – eyes to develop something?"

"So you know about the office bets, too, eh?" she asks with a mirthless chuckle.

"How can I not?" he asks, now running his free hand through his hair. "The boys badger me with it every other week – if not more often than that."

"But what does that say about us, Castle?" she asks, and he can tell her question is genuine. She's not looking for a way out. She's looking for a way in!

"What does that say," she continues, "about something so fragile? Maybe it _should_ be left alone."

"Or maybe," he counters, "we should just accept it for what it is, and not be afraid of it. It is beautiful. You don't toss something beautiful away just because it's breakable. You just mark it FRAGILE, in big letters, and you take care of it. You handle it with care. You handle it the way you would handle anything of great value. Gently. Carefully. That's all I'm suggesting . . . asking."

Suddenly he moves away, a couple of steps to the table next to them, and pulls out a chair and sits. He gently places the glass ornament on the table, and puts his heads in his hands. Suddenly he is very tired. She senses it. She pulls out a chair right next to him, and places one hand on his thigh. He ignores the touch, for a couple of seconds before lifting his head. She looks into his eyes, and sees . . . fear. It is another honest surprise from the writer.

"What is it, Castle?" she asks.

He holds her gaze for a couple of seconds, before reaching to retrieve the ornament from the table.

"I just realized," he begins, "that this ornament is either going to be a beautiful, magnificent memory that I treasure forever . . ."

He pauses for another second, twisting the ball in his hand. Her hand never leaves his thigh.

"Or it is going to be the source of tremendous agony, a memory of what might have been that haunts me just as long. Forever is a long time."

"What if it doesn't work?" she asks, and her voice is small now. Her mind is warring over a matter her heart has settled – she now realizes – long ago. Last summer, in fact.

"What if it _does_?" he asks, his voice low, matching hers. He takes her hand off of his thigh – another surprise – and turns her hand upright. He places the ornament in her hand.

"Like this ornament," he tells her, "You are beautiful. I won't let you break, Kate."

The words are simple, but stunning in impact. They aren't flippant words, words spoken idly without thought. She recognizes a heartfelt promise when she hears one.

"Nor I you, Rick," she tells him, and they both smile at her use of his first name.

He reaches toward the woman beside him, gently touching her hand. Slowly, something special happens – their fingers interlock. It's such a simple gesture – something teenagers do countless times with countless companions. For Richard Castle and Kate Beckett, suddenly time doesn't stand still – it reverses. It backs up. Suddenly, they are sixteen, seventeen again. Dual butterflies explode from their cocoons inside their stomachs.

For just a brief instant, he tightens his grip on her fingers, and glances into her eyes. Just as quickly, he lessens his grip, loosening her fingers – but not letting go. He smiles, as he walks toward a booth up against the window. He offers her a seat, and then sits across from her. He places his hand across the table, which she takes into her own. They sit here, for the next few minutes, smiling radiantly, embarrassingly, alternating their gazes from the beautiful tree that they have finished together, to each other.

But quiet. Words can ruin moments like this. He – the writer – decides that their interlocked fingers are saying more than enough for the moment.

Finally, he glances at her again. She is staring at him, and has never looked more beautiful. But he can't read her beauty. What is she thinking?

"What are you thinking?" he asks, almost . . . _almost_ afraid of the answer. Almost afraid that it's already over, and they haven't even made it out of the bar yet.

Yeah, fragile.

She smiles. That's a good sign.

"Food" she tells him. "I didn't eat dinner yet tonight, and I'm famished."

He chuckles, then glances at his watch. It's 10:05. Alexis will be home in less than an hour. Kate sees him glance at his watch, and immediately knows what he is thinking. He doesn't have enough time. She can see the disappointment on his face, but she also knows that it really isn't a choice for him.

"What time does she get home?" she asks, and his smile is one of both relief yes, but something else. He's impressed. Impressed that she gets it – his relationship with Alexis, the fact that he wants – needs to be there tonight.

"Eleven," he says.

"That gives us less than an hour," she tells him. "Isn't there a diner close to your place? I think I remember seeing one when I stayed with you last year."

"Dunn," is all he says.

"Yeah, him," she agrees. The bastard blew up her apartment. With her in it, no less. "Wasn't there a diner just –"

"Down the street, two blocks away," he confirms. "That would give us enough time to –"

"Slow," she tells him. "Remember. No rushing. So let's not start by rushing through dinner," she continues.

"Soooo," he says, holding out the syllable.

"So – call her. Text her. Tell her to go to the diner – meet us there. By then, we'll probably be ordering dessert."

"You . . . you're okay with that?" he asks, clearly impressed. Yeah, there is a reason – beyond her obvious hotness – that he has stuck around for three years.

"Absolutely," she replies. "I think it would be . . . wiser . . . better for her and for us, if she doesn't find out sometime down the road. From someone else. Better that she hear it from us. Now."

"Now," he agrees, his heart going out to the woman across the booth. He takes his phone out and sends a quick text to his daughter. He pauses, then backspaces to erase his original thoughts, as Kate's words are still ringing in his ears.

" _Better that she hear it from us. Now."_

He types his text, reads it twice – and hits SEND.

 _DAD: Hey Alexis – instead of going home to the loft, come to the 24 hour diner down the block. Kate and I will be there eating – we can grab dessert with you._

He chuckles, knowing the hand grenade he has just dropped onto his daughter's lap. He also knows that this type of honesty must be reserved for Alexis. For Martha. For Jim. And no one else. It's far too soon for Javier, or Kevin or Lanie or – God forbid Captain Montgomery find out. Or Bob. For a brief instant, he pauses, wondering if they can really do this – take it slow, do it right, but keep everyone else out.

As it turns out, that is a discussion for later.

"We won't solve everything tonight, Rick," she tells him, interrupting his thoughts – heck, it's as if she is _reading_ his thoughts.

He smiles and stands, offering his hand to help her out from the booth. He glances at the tall tree in the middle of the room and smiles at their handiwork. He turns, and for a second, panics until he sees the final ornament, the last glass ball in her hand as she walks to the tree. She selects a large, strong branch that overhangs two other branches that have grown together. She places the ornament on the stronger upper branch.

"If it falls, these two branches will catch it," she tells him with a smile.

"And who will catch us?" he wonders to himself. In the same split second, he decides it's not important. There's no guarantee they will fall. And if they do – well, they have strong family.

She offers her hand, which he takes, and they walk toward the entrance of the bar. She grabs her coat as she passes it, while he grabs his coat from the coat rack. Seconds later, their hands are joined once more. He turns the lights off, leaving only the Christmas tree illuminating the room. He glances down at their hands which are together. He smiles, as she gives his hand a squeeze. He opens the door and the brisk New York winter wind assaults them head on. He wraps his coat tighter, and is warmed as he feels her lean into him. He pulls her closer, his arm around her shoulders, allowing her to put her hands in her pocket. He shakes his head in wonder, trying to fathom how a simple Christmas tree, a few tunes and a glass ball ornament opened the door that three years of flirting and flight were unable to breach.

Forty-five seconds later, they are sliding into the back seat of a thankfully warm taxicab, now on their way to their first date . . . a simple meal in a simple diner, with the promise of an interesting dessert.

Unknown to both, back at The Old Haunt, the final glass ball with 2010 imprinted on the silver frosted surface has already slipped off the branch where Kate had placed it. Unknown to either of them, the small hanging hook Castle selected was already damaged. However, the ball has fallen into the waiting arms of the two intertwined branches below it, just as Kate had planned. The blinking, multi-colored tree lights bathe it in a myriad of colors as it rests safely – immobile – in the protective green pine needles that it now calls home.


End file.
